by kimberly
"Then perhaps you need the comfort of our Lord, Jesus Christ."
Julienne glanced down at the literature. Her hopes sank like a stone in water.
THE PATH TO SALVATION, it read.
Disappointed, she shook her head in a polite decline of the material. "Thanks, nice of you to offer."
"Is someone coming to meet you?" Edith asked, trying to engage her in conversation. "You seem so alone."
"My grandmother, I think," Julienne replied. "Perhaps you know her. Anlese Blackthorne."
Edith Danridge drew back a bit upon hearing her answer, her lips forming an "O" of silent surprise. A shadow of uncertainty flashed across her features. "Yes, I know your family." Her body language became defensive, as if she were afraid of being attacked. Her voice grew strained.
"It's been a long time since I've seen her," Julienne offered, puzzled by the abrupt change in attitude. It was as if a chill wind had blown without warning through the terminal. "My mother's name was Cassandra. Did you know her?"
"Yes, I remember Cassandra Blackthorne. She didn't have a chance…" She unexpectedly glanced over her shoulder toward her group of peers, who were also handing out church literature, as if afraid they would hear her. "…belonging to them. You don't yet, I see." Her hand lifted and her fingers curled around the gold cross hanging from Julienne's neck. "Keep faith, and don't let them destroy you, the way it did her."
Julienne drew back, sucking in a startled breath. The nearness of this strange old woman made her extremely uncomfortable. She moved too carelessly, and the thin chain around her neck snapped, the ends dangling from the stranger's hand.
"I don't understand," she stammered.
Edith Danridge ignored her. As if in a daze, she gave her attention to the broken necklace.
"Too late," she murmured. The necklace slid from her fingers, falling to the floor at her feet. "You belong to the devil himself." Giving Julienne a frightened glance, she turned and scurried away, murmuring, "God help us all."
Julienne stood motionless until jostled into action by passersby. "She's nuts!" she muttered. She tried not to let the woman's words affect her. Nevertheless, such strange pronouncements were unnerving.
A fanatic. She knelt to retrieve her jewelry. Spends too much time in that church of hers.
"There's Miss Julie." A man's voice wafted through the airport and caught her ear.
Julienne stood, looking for the person who'd spoken her name. One man in particular immediately caught her notice. A young black man, he stood at the periphery of the departing passengers, at an angle where he could survey the entire room in a single glance. He wore crisp new jeans and a matching shirt. He held a well-worn felt hat in his hands. He stood ramrod straight as he searched the concourse with keen interest.
When his gaze located Julienne, he leaned slightly to his left and spoke to someone concealed behind an outspread newspaper. The paper came down immediately. Folding it in four crisp movements of precise economy, the second man dropped the newspaper into the nearby wastebasket.
Julienne felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise. This, she felt, must be Saint-Evanston. She could not help but notice that people were falling back to make room for him. A current of apprehension rippled through the masses as he advanced, as if some silent command demanded none should cross his path. Even his companion followed a courteous distance behind.
Morgan Saint-Evanston stopped within a few feet of her. He gave a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement. "Ce'as mile fa'ilte, leanabh," he said.
Julienne blinked, uncomprehending, puzzled. The odd words jarred, seeming to carry the whisper of familiarity, much like the strains of a long-forgotten tune. One could hum a few notes but never entirely capture the haunting melody.
"What did you say?" she asked bluntly. She had not picked up a single word he'd said.
"A hundred thousand welcomes," he repeated, this time in English.
"Oh. Sorry, I didn't understand." Her brow wrinkled in question. "You expected me to?"
"When you were small, I used to speak Gaelic, the Irish language, to you." His earnest gaze raked over her, measuring every inch of her five-ten height. In heels, she towered almost half a head over him. "But you are not so little now, I see." His words were tinged with an Irish brogue, precisely spoken as if to avoid mangling the English language. His voice had a pleasing timbre, even in cadence and tone, in intimacy and confidence. She surmised he could undoubtedly manipulate it with ease, make anyone believe he was sincere, even when he was not.
"N--no, I don't remember," she stammered. She immediately noticed that he did not offer his hand or any other physical contact. Despite his salutation, his behavior was guarded, his black stare intense and aggressive, displaying no emotion. Nothing, it seemed, would escape his notice.
If you can't dazzle them… The mantra earlier dancing through her mind came to an abrupt halt. He doesn't look like he can be dazzled…or bull-shitted.
"Sorry, no, I'm afraid I don't recall," Julienne explained as her excuse.
"Why not, caile?" he inquired. Caile. Girl. "Were we so forgettable?"
"It's been a long time since I was three years old." Her face flushed with self-consciousness. To gain a few moments to gather her thoughts, she studied the man who stood before her. He cut an impressive figure, elegantly dressed in a suit of charcoal gray: coat tailored, trousers sharply creased, silk vest worn over a crisp white shirt open at the neck, no tie. A hanging gold watch chain bridged the pockets of his vest. All in all, his finery was immaculately tailored and smartly worn.
His complexion was cream-colored, his eyes almost black. His black, collar-length hair was layered and unruly, threaded with silver at his temples and bangs. At a glance, he appeared to be about thirty. A closer look revealed crows-feet etched at the outer corners of his eyes. Around his mouth were a few deeper character lines and small scars. He was well-muscled, his posture regal, as if he were always in command despite what fate might otherwise dictate.
If he had any feelings about her arrival he was revealing nothing. There was absolutely no outward sign of affection, and his reception was an indifferent one. Could she blame him? Benefit of the doubt would advise her that perhaps he was also unsure of how she would greet him. After all, he and her mother had parted on embittered terms.
"Nevertheless, you belong here." He spoke as if he owned her, body and soul.
"I'm not sure it was right to come back," Julienne confessed. She nervously fidgeted with the case she carried. Why was it so hard for her to look him in the eye? His gaze, so direct and unblinking, unsettled her.
"If you wish to leave, you are free to do so." Saint-Evanston gave a slight shrug of his shoulders. He seemed unwilling to commit any sentiment toward her presence.
At once, Julienne wished she had not agreed to come to Virginia. She wasn't ready to confront him. How could she be? At this point in her journey she was barely coherent.
"I don't mean to be rude or ungrateful for the help you've offered," she hastened to explain. "But I have a life away from here, one you people aren't a part of."
"Then, by all means, do not let us detain you further." He retrieved a gold watch from the pocket of his vest and flicked open its face to check the hour. "I do not intend to stand here all day waiting for you." He snapped the watch shut and returned it to its place. His meaning was clear. He had no patience for a spoiled little girl.
He's blunt, she thought. Won't play games. He's going to call them like he sees them. It was abundantly transparent that she needed to quit wasting his time and decide what she wanted to do.
Desperate to escape his stare burning into her, Julienne searched for an escape route. If she had to leave with only the clothes on her back, she would. Ready to bolt, she turned to leave and stumbled, twisting her ankle violently as the heel of her sandal lost traction on the smooth tile floor. She would have taken a nasty spill if Saint-Evanston's companion hadn't caught her arm and helped to steady her.
"Careful, now, Miss Julie."
"Thank you, Mr. --?"
"Tobias Greenwood, ma'am."
She nodded, then channeled a stabbing glare toward Saint‑Evanston, who had made no attempt to come to her aid. He watched her with infuriating impassivity, as if he were merely observing an untalented stage performer acting out her role.
"I have had quite enough," he announced, biting off his words in little pieces. "You can come or be left behind. Period." He gestured for Tobias to follow. His brisk stride left them in its wake.
Tobias offered a questioning look as he took a few hesitant steps after his employer. "You comin', Miss Julie? He won't wait all day."
"I guess I am." Having no choice, she took the arm Tobias offered and allowed him to lead her through the terminal.
A short distance away, they passed the elderly woman who'd earlier accosted her. Edith Danridge stepped forward and again offered her pamphlet of Christian literature to Julienne.
"They destroyed your mother with their practices," she cautioned in a whisper, "You're next. Mark my words."
Tobias hastily brushed the old woman aside. "Please, leave Miss Julie alone," he said. His voice was not unkind, but firm. "She's had a long day and wants to get home." Maneuvering Julienne ahead of him, he gave a slight nod of his head to wish the woman a good day.
What the hell does she mean? Julienne wondered. Curiosity surfacing, she shot a quick glance back over her shoulder. Edith Danridge's churchgoing companions were nattering reverently among themselves. Why were the townspeople people afraid? The mystery surrounding Cassandra and her estrangement from the Blackthorne family was taking a turn for the worse. She looked at Tobias Greenwood. He'd impressed her by handling the sticky situation with grace. He seemed a solid and reliable man. Trustworthy. It might not be a bad idea to cultivate him as an ally.
"What was that about?" she asked, her forehead crinkling in question.
"Pay them no mind, Miss Julie," he said, rolling his eyes heavenward. "She doesn't know what she's saying." He increased his speed, forcing her to lengthen her steps to keep up with him.
"Hey! Wait!" she pointed as they passed into the baggage area. "I need to get my things."
Ahead of them, Saint-Evanston did not bother to slow his pace. Apparently, such things were of no concern to him.
"I'll get them, Miss Julie," Tobias offered, reaching for the small tote she carried.
Julienne hesitated, then handed Tobias her claim tickets and, after a moment, her cosmetics case. He took the stubs and trotted off in another direction while a crowd of people forged past them, struggling with luggage, children and the general inconvenience of travel. She firmly pushed her way through the bodies, hurrying to catch Saint-Evanston before she lost sight of him as he turned a far corner. Her heels clicked loudly on the slick tile when she trotted up beside him, waiting until they were out of earshot before breaking the awkward silence his last remark had caused between them.
"I'm sorry," she said breathlessly, trying to repair the rift she had immediately managed to create. She had not come home to make enemies. "I should be grateful to have family at all. I just lost my head. Nothing's been right for me lately."
"I quite understand," he said without looking at her. He did not slow his stride.
"I don't think you do," Julienne panted, wishing he would stop for ten damned minutes and let her catch her breath.
"I was trying to be nice." His tone indicated he was addressing her out of courtesy only.
His words rankled. "You don't have to be nice to me," she protested. "I didn't ask to come here."
Saint-Evanston halted as they exited the main terminal. "I know I do not have to be nice!" he snapped, his patience at its end. "And if you want to leave…" He pointed. "...there is a whole mollaghtagh, damned, airport at your service."
"I'm on my way," Julienne threatened, taking a tentative step away from him. She held herself very stiff and erect, her nervous hands stubbornly clenched, taut defiance in her drawn, pale face.
"Then go, caile. There is nothing stopping you," Morgan said harshly. Unlike herself, he stood rock-like, an immovable and unsympathetic force.
She took another step back, and then a third. But not a fourth. A nauseous feeling churned in her stomach. She strained to see beyond the haze floating in front of her eyes. Tears struggled to escape; however, she refused to let him see her cry.
"I can't leave," she finally admitted, lowering her voice to almost a whisper. "I haven't got any money."
He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a slim black leather wallet. "Ah, I see. It is a matter of money." He pitched it at her. "Here. This should solve your problem."
Julienne clumsily caught the wallet.
What the hell is he playing at?
Giving him a wary look, she expertly assessed its contents like the streetwise urchin Cassandra Blackthorne had raised--twenty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and a row of credit cards. She slid one of the cards out of its pocket. A corporate American Express. Blackthorne Enterprises, Inc. She flicked out a second card. Platinum Visa, ditto the cardholder. Cold, hard cash and a sheaf of credit cards. She doubted any of them had a credit limit. She noted there was no driver's license or any other form of identification. Odd. Had he prepared this specifically to give her?
"There is your freedom," he prompted with elaborate mockery. His intense features displayed no sympathy.
Julienne replaced the cards, grasping for an explanation for his unrelenting verbal spikes. Did he want her to leave? Was there some secret in his past that he didn't want her to discover? If that was the case, why even bring her here? Curiosity aroused, she decided to take the hand he'd dealt. She could always walk away if the game didn't play out to her advantage.
"What's your point?" she demanded. "Is this about how indebted I am to you now? You bought the negatives to hold over my head, didn't you? Fine, then. You now have a piece of Julienne Hunter. It's all you'll get of me. Ever." She brandished his wallet. "As for this, I've earned it just by coming here today. I'll be sure to spend it all."
A cunning glint sidled into the depth of his black eyes. "I notice that you are not leaving." Check, and mate. He was competing in the game of one-upmanship with consummate skill. And he was playing to win.
Julienne sighed. Dealing with Morgan Saint-Evanston was as satisfying as banging your head on a brick wall. There appeared to be absolutely no give in his rigid disposition. For him, things were black or white, with no gray in between. He didn't seem to recognize that she desperately wanted someone to assume leadership, give her the answers, tell her what to do. On the contrary, he was forcing her to stand on her own, to make her own decisions.
Well, that didn't work.
She tried advancing from another front. Time to play the sympathy card. It was the last one she had. Surely, a hangdog demeanor couldn't fail to wrench his hard heart.
"Look, I know I've made mistakes," she tried to explain. "But I want better things for myself. I'm willing to work to get there. I don't want your money, or anything else. I just want to try and live my life."
"Then you would do well to work on your attitude." He expertly outplayed her closing hand. "That is the first thing about you that needs to change."
"My attitude?" she sputtered, her irritation rising anew. Goddamn him, he doesn't let up! "And what about your attitude?"
"I was not aware I had one that needed adjustment," he said, his habitual smirk changing into a severe frown. "I suggest you lower your voice and, while in public, conduct yourself like a proper lady."
"Why, you disagreeable little man!" Julienne exclaimed. "How dare you order me around like a child!"
He arched one eyebrow and gave an acetous glance to her high heels. An impulsive, unexpected fury gusted up in his voice. "I suppose the oxygen is thinner up there where you are. Has the lack of breathable air distorted your mind?"
"You don't look like Noel Coward to me." Julienne cocked her head to
one side and looked down her nose at him. Though he stood her exact barefoot height, she decided to play her four extra inches of heel to her advantage. "I do believe he was taller."
Julienne could see the ridge of muscle tighten in his jaw as a hint of irritation drew down the corners of his mouth. She knew that, despite his outer composure, he was vexed by her words. It perversely pleased her that she'd annoyed him--and, like a disobedient child, she hadn't been able to help drive her point deeper.
His hand came up, cutting the air at his eye level. "So the kitten has claws," he volleyed, forcing his voice to a deliberate calm. "Do not worry, caillag, in no time I shall cut you down to my size. It will not take long. Everything about you is false." His broadside was unflinching in its delivery.
"Now I know why my mother hated you!" Julienne intended the statement to sound bitter. Instead, her tone was tinged with a longing and loneliness that betrayed the hollow void in her soul.
"Well, if you insist on bringing Cassandra into this," he remarked sourly, "then I have about as much reason to mistrust you as you to carry on her hatred of me."
Taken aback, Julienne could think of no reply. Her mind resurrected thoughts of escape.
Turn around, claim your bags and walk away. Forget them all.
Still she made no move. As much as she hated to admit it, she knew why she was unable to leave. She desperately wanted someone to take care of her, love her unconditionally. She sought the security that had been missing from her life since she was a child. She had come to Virginia harboring the small but strong hope that these people held it for her.
Saint-Evanston consulted his watch a second time, indicating that further conversation was at its end. "Tobias should be waiting," he said. "Come along."
"What if I don't want to?" The headstrong child inside reared her head. She still had his wallet. She could take the cash and go if she wanted to.
Morgan lifted a hand. "Sla'n agat. Imeacht gan teacht ort." Goodbye. May you leave without returning. He did not look back as he walked away. "I shall have Tobias leave your bags outside."
